  WONDER IN THE WOOD A few days after this, little Wonder, playing about the garden, had slipped away from her nurse, and, pleased in her little soul at her cleverness, had found her way up to her father's chÂlet. Antony was sitting at his desk, writing, with his door open. "Daddy," suddenly came a little voice from the bottom of the staircase, "Daddy, where are you?" Antony rose and went to the door. "Come in, little Wonder. Well, it is a clever girl to come all the way up the wood by herself." "Yes, Daddy," said the self-possessed little girl, as she toddled into the chÂlet and looked round wonderingly at the books and pictures. Then presently: "Daddy, what do you do all day in the wood?" "I make beautiful things." "Show me some." Antony showed her a page of his beautiful manuscript. "Why, those are only words, silly Daddy!" "But words, little Wonder, are the most beautiful things in the world. Listen—" and he took the child on his knee. "Listen:— In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. The child had inherited a love of beautiful sound, and, though she understood nothing of the meaning, the music charmed her, and she nestled close to her father, with wide eyes. "Say some more, Daddy." The sobbing cadences of the greatest of Irish songs came to Antony's mind, and he crooned a verse or two at random: All day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen!.... Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You'll think of me thro' daylight hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer To heal your many ills! And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My dark Rosaleen! Wonder, child-like, wearied with the length of the verses, and suddenly the white face of Silencieux caught her eye. "Who is that lady, Daddy?" "That is Silencieux." "What a pretty name! Is she a kind lady, Daddy?" "Sometimes." "She is very beautiful. She is like little mother. But her face is so white. She makes me frightened. Hold me, Daddy—" and she crouched in his arms. "You mustn't be frightened of her, Wonder. She loves little girls. See how she is smiling at you. She wants to be friends with you. She wants you to kiss her, little Wonder." "Oh, no! no!" almost screamed the little girl. But suddenly a cruel whim to insist came over the father, and, half-coaxingly and half-forcibly, he held her up to the image, stroking its white cheek to reassure her. "See, how kind she is, little Wonder! See how she smiles—how she loves you. She loves little girls, and she never sees any up here in the lonely wood. It will make her so happy. Kiss her, little Wonder!" Reluctantly the child obeyed, and with a shudder she said:— "Oh, how cold her lips are, Daddy!" "But were they not sweet, little Wonder?" "No, Daddy, they tasted of dust." And as Antony had lifted her up, he had said in his heart: "Silencieux, I bring you my little child." |
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