"Nevertheless please sing it,for if not to my taste,you will prevent it from running in my head any longer,as it has ever since I heard it.""You will never ask for it again,"she said,and she sang the following words to a low-gliding melody designed to suggest the murmur of a small stream:
'Twas down in a meadow,close by a brook,A violet bloomed in a shadowy nook.
She gazed at the rill with a wistful eye---"He cares not for me,he's hastening by,"She sighed.
In sunshine and shade the brook sped along,Nor ceased for a moment his gurgling song.
"'Twould sing all the same were I withered and dead"---And the blue-eyed violet bowed her head And died.
But the rill and the song went on the same Till the pitiless frost of winter came,When the song was hushed in an icy chill,And the gay little brook at last stood still And thought---"Oh,could I now see the violet blue that looked at me once with eyes of dew,I'd spring to her feet and lingering stay Till sure I was bearing her love away,Well sought."The song seemed to disturb the artist somewhat."The stupid brook!"he exclaimed."It was so stupid as to be almost human.""I knew you wouldn't like it,"she said,looking up at him in surprise.
"I like your singing and the music,but that brook provokes me,the little idiot!Why didn't it stop before?""I take the brook's part,"said Ida."Because the violet gazed at it in a lackadaisical way was no reason for its stopping unless it wanted to.Indeed,if I were the violet I should want the brook to go on,unless it couldn't help stopping.""It did stop when it couldn't help itself,and then it was too late,"said Van Berg,with a frown.
Ida trilled out one of her sudden laughs,as she said,"Don't take the matter so to heart,Mr.Van Berg.When spring came the brook went on as merrily as ever,and was well contented to have other violets look at it.""Miss Ida,you are a witch,"said the artist,and with an odd,involuntary gesture he passed his hand across his brow as if to brush away a mist or film from his mind.
"Oh!"thought Ida,with passionate longing,"may my spells hold,or else I may feel like following the example of the silly little violet."But she pirouetted up to her father,who was just entering,and said:"It's time you came,father.Mr.Van berg has begun calling me names.""I shall follow his example by calling you my good fairy.Mr.Van Berg,I have been in paradise all the week.""I shall not join this mutual admiration society,and I insist that you two gentlemen talk in a sensible way."But Van Berg seemed to find it difficult to come down to a matter-of-fact conversation with Mr.Mayhew,and soon after took his leave.Before going he tried to induce Ida to come to the studio again,but she declined,saying:
"Mother has entrusted to me several commissions,and I must attend to them to-morrow morning.As it is,my conscience troubles me very much that I have left her alone all the week,and I shall try to make all the amends I can by getting what she wishes.""Oh!your terrible conscience!"he said.
"Yes,it has been scolding me all day for wasting so much of your time.Now don't burden yours with any denials.Good-night."He turned eagerly to protest against her words,but she was retreating rapidly;she gave him a smile over her shoulder,however,that was at once full of mirth and something more--something that he could not explain or grasp any more than he could the soft,silvery light of the moon that filled the sky,and was as real as it was intangible.
He walked away as if in a dream;he continued his aimless wanderings for hours,but swift as were his strides a swifter current of passion,deep and strong,was sweeping him away from Jennie Burton and the power to make good his open pledge to win her if he could.
He still was dreaming,he still was lost in the luminous mists of his own imagination.But the hour of waking and clear vision was drawing near,and Harold Van Berg would learn anew that the cool,well-balanced reason on which he had once so prided himself was scarcely equal to all the questions which complex human life presents.
