"You mean this shaggy shadow--the nigh one? And, yes, now that I markit, it is not unlike a large, black Newfoundland dog. The invadingshadow gone, the invaded one returns. But I do not see what casts it."
"For that, you must go without."
"One of those grassy rocks, no doubt."
"You see his head, his face?"
"The shadow's? You speak as if _you_ saw it, and all the time your eyesare on your work."
"Tray looks at you," still without glancing up; "this is his hour; I seehim."
"Have you then, so long sat at this mountain-window, where but cloudsand, vapors pass, that, to you, shadows are as things, though you speakof them as of phantoms; that, by familiar knowledge, working like asecond sight, you can, without looking for them, tell just where theyare, though, as having mice-like feet, they creep about, and come andgo; that, to you, these lifeless shadows are as living friends, who,though out of sight, are not out of mind, even in their faces--is itso?"
"That way I never thought of it. But the friendliest one, that used tosoothe my weariness so much, coolly quivering on the ferns, it was takenfrom me, never to return, as Tray did just now. The shadow of a birch.The tree was struck by lightning, and brother cut it up. You saw thecross-pile out-doors--the buried root lies under it; but not the shadow.That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir again."
Another cloud here stole along, once more blotting out the dog, andblackening all the mountain; while the stillness was so still, deafnessmight have forgot itself, or else believed that noiseless shadow spoke.
"Birds, Marianna, singing-birds, I hear none; I hear nothing. Boys andbob-o-links, do they never come a-berrying up here?"
"Birds, I seldom hear; boys, never. The berries mostly ripe andfall--few, but me, the wiser."
"But yellow-birds showed me the way--part way, at least."
"And then flew back. I guess they play about the mountain-side, butdon't make the top their home. And no doubt you think that, living solonesome here, knowing nothing, hearing nothing--little, at least, butsound of thunder and the fall of trees--never reading, seldom speaking,yet ever wakeful, this is what gives me my strange thoughts--for so youcall them--this weariness and wakefulness together Brother, who standsand works in open air, would I could rest like him; but mine is mostlybut dull woman's work--sitting, sitting, restless sitting."
"But, do you not go walk at times? These woods are wide."
"And lonesome; lonesome, because so wide. Sometimes, 'tis true, ofafternoons, I go a little way; but soon come back again. Better feellone by hearth, than rock. The shadows hereabouts I know--those in thewoods are strangers."
"But the night?"
"Just like the day. Thinking, thinking--a wheel I cannot stop; pure wantof sleep it is that turns it."
"I have heard that, for this wakeful weariness, to say one's prayers,and then lay one's head upon a fresh hop pillow--"
"Look!"
Through the fairy window, she pointed down the steep to a small gardenpatch near by--mere pot of rifled loam, half rounded in by shelteringrocks--where, side by side, some feet apart, nipped and puny, twohop-vines climbed two poles, and, gaining their tip-ends, would havethen joined over in an upward clasp, but the baffled shoots, gropingawhile in empty air, trailed back whence they sprung.
"You have tried the pillow, then?"
"Yes."
"And prayer?"
"Prayer and pillow."
"Is there no other cure, or charm?"
"Oh, if I could but once get to yonder house, and but look upon whoeverthe happy being is that lives there! A foolish thought: why do I thinkit? Is it that I live so lonesome, and know nothing?"
"I, too, know nothing; and, therefore, cannot answer; but, for yoursake, Marianna, well could wish that I were that happy one of the happyhouse you dream you see; for then you would behold him now, and, as yousay, this weariness might leave you."
--Enough. Launching my yawl no more for fairy-land, I stick to thepiazza. It is my box-royal; and this amphitheatre, my theatre of SanCarlo. Yes, the scenery is magical--the illusion so complete. And MadamMeadow Lark, my prima donna, plays her grand engagement here; and,drinking in her sunrise note, which, Memnon-like, seems struck from thegolden window, how far from me the weary face behind it.
But, every night, when the curtain falls, truth comes in with darkness.No light shows from the mountain. To and fro I walk the piazza deck,haunted by Marianna's face, and many as real a story.
