CHAPTER VI.
Tacita resumed her journey in a dream, and pursued it in a dream. She asked no questions, and observed but little, though at times it seemed to her that the line of their progress was a zigzag. Did they cross the water a second time? Why did they travel so much by night, and sleep by day? She did not care. Her mind became dimly aware of these questions rather than asked them. Had she taken hashish? No matter. All that she wanted was rest. Her very eyelashes and fingernails were weary. Oh, for the mountains, for a place to call home, and rest!
She received the impression that a part of the country through which they passed was like a burnt-out world, all sand and black rocks, so that the limpid rivulet that met them somewhere was a surprise. She wondered languidly that it was not dried up. Was it a week, or a month, since Dylar had said, “Have no fear”? No matter. She had no fear; but she was, oh, so weary! Fortunately, nothing was required of her but passive endurance of fatigue. She was borne along, and tenderly cared for.
One day she roused herself a little, or something was done to rouse her. They were in an easy oldcarriage drawn by mules. It had met them at a solitary little station of which she had not seen nor asked the name; and they had been driving through a dry plain, and were now in pine woods.
Elena gave her some little cakes of chocolate and slices of lemon. “We are almost out of provisions,” she said; “but in an hour you shall have a good dinner; and then to bed with her, like a sleepy child.”
Elena was smiling brightly. Tacita gave a languid smile in return, and leaned back, looking out the window. The pines had ceased, and there was a rice-field at one side, and orange-trees heavily laden with ripe fruit at the other.
The oranges reminded her of Naples, which she had visited when a child. The blue bay and blue sky seemed to sparkle before her, the songs bubbled up, there was the soft splendor of profuse flowers, the fruits, the joy in life, the careless gayety; and, crowning these delights, that ever-present menace smoking up against the sky, telling of boiling rivers from a boiling pit of inextinguishable fire ever ready to overflow, bearing destruction to all that beauty.
“The utmost of earthly delight has ever its throne on the edge of a crater,” she thought.
The orange-trees pressed closer, right and left, there were blossoms with the fruit, and the western sun shone through both. The air was fresh and sweet. She saw nothing but glossy foliage and golden balls, and a green turf strown with gold.
“It is Andalusia, or the Hesperides!” she said, waking, and sitting up.
Even as she spoke, the green and gold wall came to an end, and at a little distance a whitewashed stone house was visible.
“Look!” exclaimed Elena; and leaning toward her, pointed upward out of the carriage window.
Behind the house, showing over its roof like a crown on a head, was a curve of olive-trees on a hill-top. Above the trees rose wild rocks in fantastic peaks and precipices, and above the rocks, closely serrated, was a range of Alp-like mountains upholding a mass of snow and ice that glittered rosily in the sunset.
“Is it your home?” asked Tacita eagerly. “How beautiful!”
“Not yet,” her friend answered, her eyes, filled with tears of joy, fixed on those shining heights. “But from my home those mountains are visible. To-morrow night I shall sleep under my own blessed roof!”
The door of the house stood open, but no one appeared in it. At some distance were several persons, men and women, gathering oranges. They paused to look at the travelers, but made no movement to approach them.
“We do not need any one,” Elena said. “You shall go directly to your chamber; and after supper you shall sleep.”
They entered a vestibule from which a stair ascended. The inner doors were closed. They wentup to a pleasant chamber that looked toward the mountains and the south. At their left, toward the east, twilight had already come under the shadow of those heights and the pines beneath. But shafts of red gold still shot over their heads from the west, and all the shadows had a tinge of gold. An orange-tree that grew beneath their window lifted a crowded cluster of ripe fruit above the sill, as if offering it to the travelers.
“Thank you!” Tacita said, and detached one from the bunch where they grew so close that each one had a facet on its side.
Elena, who seemed to feel perfectly at home, left her resting and went down stairs for their supper. She had made no mistake in saying that it would be a good supper. An hour later, the shadows had lost their gold, and Tacita was asleep.
How sweet is the deep sleep of weariness that hopes and trusts! It is not alone that every nerve and muscle lets slip a burden, that the heart gives a thankful sigh, and the busy brain grows quiet. The pleasure is more than negative. Such sleep comes as the tide comes in calm weather. Transparent, yet tangible, it steals over the tired senses, its crest a whispered lullaby. Deeper, then, smoothing out the creases of life with a down-like touch. Yet deeper, and a full swell submerges the consciousness, and you lie quiescent at the bottom of an enchanted sea.